


Lay us down (we're young and in love)

by MemeKon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Body Worship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Notfic, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 03:50:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemeKon/pseuds/MemeKon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I need someone to write me a body worship fic where Derek turns the tables on all the 'you're gorgeous', 'you're so pretty' and 'you look so good's he gets grunted from Stiles on a regular basis; a fic where Derek notices Stiles' countless layers, notices that he likes fucking with clothes on the way, and it burns low on the pit of his stomach, rolls around there, making him so uncomfortable, because for all that Stiles acts like he knows his own value, acts like he's the shit, deep inside he's just a kid that's... What? Never been touched? But he has. Been touched, that is. There's Derek, who's pressed his hands everywhere Stiles has allowed him access to; and before that... There was the girl, Heather?</p><p>And before... And before nothing. That's it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay us down (we're young and in love)

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically just a lot of porn with feelings that I wrote on my phone while I couldn't sleep. It's completely self-indulgent, and not at all betaed, so I'm sorry for any glaring mistakes. I'll take a look at this again tomorrow, after I've slept a little.  
> And the title is just because P!ATD's new album is all I've been listening to for the past 24 hours.

I need someone to write me a body worship fic where Derek turns the tables on all the 'you're gorgeous', 'you're so pretty' and 'you look so good's he gets grunted from Stiles on a regular basis; a fic where Derek notices Stiles' countless layers, notices that he likes fucking with clothes on the way, and it burns low on the pit of his stomach, rolls around there, making him so uncomfortable, because for all that Stiles acts like he knows his own value, acts like he's the shit, deep inside he's just a kid that's... What? Never been touched? But he has. Been touched, that is. There's Derek, who's pressed his hands everywhere Stiles has allowed him access to; and before that... There was the girl, Heather?

And before... And before nothing. That's it.

And Heather, Heather had been Stiles' childhood friend, right? The girl he took bubble baths with. The girl who trusted him enough to want him to be her first.

Oh, Derek thinks, oh. Because Heather wanted Stiles-the-safe-bet, Stiles-the-good-friend who was gonna treat her right, wasn't gonna get any ideas.

And after that there was Derek. Derek happening mid-yelling match, Derek silencing Stiles with his lips, hard and punishing, and saying, "God, Stiles, don't you ever shut up?"

Derek letting his frustration bleed into that kiss, grabbing the lapels of Stiles' shirt and pushing.

And there was the taste of Stiles giving back as good as he got, refusing to yield, hand on Derek's chest, nails unforgiving and digging in.

He almost sneered, "then fucking shut me up, you asshole".

The way that'd made Derek's blood boil, gotten them from point a to point b: Stiles on his knees, rubbing his mouth purposefully against the strained denim of Derek's sprayed on jeans; his honey-whiskey colored eyes on him, defiant, as his long fingers unbuttoned his pants, and unzipped them, and went straight for the waistband of his underwear. As he made skin-to-skin contact and grabbed his already leaking cock, pumped it once, twice, and then just narrowed his eyes, hissed and got the head inside his mouth.

There had been that one fumbling attempt with Heather that had ended with her killed, and then him on his knees for Derek, lips wide and slick and parted around his cock, tongue lapping, drool dripping, hands bruising Derek's hips again and again until Derek fisted Stiles' hair, pulled out and came on him.

Stiles had wiped the come away from his cheek, from his bottom lip, from the hollow of his throat where it'd dribbled to with the sleeve of his plaid shirt.

Had spat a stray bit of it on the floor as he stood up, which had made something in Derek shrink, whine, even as he tried to keep a façade, a face too calm for the heat he'd been feeling on his cheeks, for his limp dick hanging out of his boxer briefs, covered in his own jizz and Stiles' heady scent.

Stiles had looked at him, and had thrown him a parting "so fucking pretty" that had sounded as everything but a compliment.

They'd gotten into the same argument the next day, neither of them backing down until Scott -here this time to monitor them- made them, took the decision making into his own hands.

After Scott'd left, Stiles stayed, eyes stubbornly locked on the pages of an old tome on supernatural lore.

Derek had tried to ignore him, to not fucking give into him, not react the way he was sure Stiles was expecting: rude and coarse, demanding him to leave already. He wouldn't give Stiles the pleasure.

But then Stiles had said, "is he gone?" in apparent disinterest and something primal and beastly, slobbering, had stirred in him and he'd said "yes," before he could think of a reason not to, voice hollowed with want.

And in a matter of seconds Stiles had backed him onto his bed, all long limbs and sure strides. And he'd settled on top of him and ground his hips down, smirking at him with eyes at half-mast when he'd felt how ridiculously hard Derek was already. That'd made him scowl, and that in turn had made Stiles snort, as he nosed along Derek's neck and bit him with a vengeance.

It'd made Derek keen, had made his hands fly to Stiles' ass, had made him force Stiles down as he pushed up.

Stiles had moaned, at that, deep and fucking husky but he'd kept up with what he was doing, working his teeth on every inch of Derek's throat he could get at.

"It's a fucking shame you won't get hickeys," he'd mumbled at some point, as Derek fumbled with the button of his jeans, needy to feel the weight of Stiles' hard cock on his hand. "you'd look even prettier with them."  
Derek hadn't payed attention to the 'pretty' thing, too fixated on the idea of being marked up, of Stiles wanting to fucking stake a claim, leave him blue and purple and tender for everyone to see, to know. That made him expose even more of his skin, made him turn his head, offer himself up.

And then he finally got to touch the silky skin of Stiles' dick, got to play with his balls, to trace his curly, damp pubic hairs, to tug, to feel it leaking onto his fingers and the palm of his hand and he lost it a little until Stiles curled into him and came with a broken gasp, getting come on his fist and the tiny sliver of skin showing between his henley and his (uncomfortably wet and sticky, and fuck, fuck, somewhere along the line he came, with Stiles' ass pushing down and his cock pulsing on his hand, he's so gone) jeans, on the hem of said henley.

Stiles hadn't said much else, after. Neither did he stay much longer, and Derek didn't really ask him to.

It'd become their thing, get into arguments (and seventy percent of the time those were about the stupid plans the other came up with, plans that were likely to harm them, and Derek tries not to think hard about that, about the fact that they're always fighting about each other's safety, about 'why the fuck can't you sit this one out, Stiles? Do you want to die so much?' and 'quit it with the fucking martyr act, Derek. You won't get killed on my fucking watch, you dipshit'), frustrate the hell out of each other, and then have intense, messy sex once they were alone, clinging to one another and shoving and pulling, biting and sucking and scratching.

And Stiles always gives him that one phrase, one way or another, only ever altering the words but never the meaning. It never gets fonder, softer, it's always dropped a little like acid, like salt into an open wound.

Derek will be thrusting into him, deep and brutal, with Stiles on his elbows and knees, spine bowed, because he refuses to take his jeans all the way off and this way it's easier and the next thing he knows, Stiles will be spent and gasping for breath, and then licking his lips, saying "even like this, all sweaty and gross, you look fucking edible".

Derek will be riding Stiles' fat, long dick, bouncing like he's getting paid, like it's going out of style, ignoring the roughness of the denim against his ass, locking his eyes on Stiles', which flutter closed as he bites his lip again and again, roll back in pleasure as he works his hips in a circle. He'll be raking his nails down what's is in view of Stiles' chest under his bunched up shirt (pale skin covered in hickeys, nipples pink and swollen from Derek's ministrations), struggling to swallow half formed words of affection, and then Stiles will call him 'too fucking gorgeous'.

And it's okay until it isn't. It's okay until one day Stiles forsakes their argument, almost gets himself killed by some rogue omegas, thankfully only ends up with a split lip, a bloody gash on his cheek and a black eye before they find him, and Derek wants to maim someone (despite already having ripped one of the omegas to shreds), to put his fist through something solid, feels like the scent of injury permeating Stiles is fucking abrasive and he'll tear the world apart.

And they're on Derek's 'soccer dad' Toyota (Scott driving Stiles' jeep, after having taken a look at them and just taking the keys away from Stiles, with no need for an exchange of words), and Stiles huffs and blurts out, "don't be like this, Big Guy, I'm okay. We can totally still fool around if you're up to it." and he tries to sneak his hand up Derek's thigh, and it's... Revolting. Revolting that Stiles' face is red with blood and he smells of it and of someone else's violent, killing intent, hands trembling minutely, and he thinks Derek wants to fuck around.

"Shut up, Stiles." He grunts, because it's either that or yelling and he won't let himself turn into that guy right now. "Don't even think we're going to screw around tonight."

Stiles' face closes off at that, shuts down completely, like a machine turned off. He turns his face away from Derek, puts his hand on his own leg and stares out of the window. He clears his throat and asks Derek to take him home then; says he has a first aid kit, he'll clean his wounds, take a couple of pain killers and sleep the worst of it off.

Derek's chest crumbles inwards at that, his finger joints ache, and he wants to do something but he doesn't know what so he agrees, drives them to Stiles' house, watches him as he gets inside, listens in on him, until he's in his room, as safe as he'll ever be.

And on his way back to his loft his stomach is still tied in knots, still quivering and doing fucking pirouettes and Derek thinks. Thinks about the mess he's in, about Stiles, about holding him, about this crushing, debilitating fear that he has of losing him, about the burning licks he feels all over at the notion that maybe Stiles thinks he's good enough for a fuck but that's it.

And then he's parking outside his building and a fucking epiphany slaps him across the face.

'What if Stiles is convinced Derek's the one who thinks that?'

And it's absurd because Derek is gone on Stiles. And not just gone, but Harlequin romance gone, he's pathetic about him, ready to bare his neck and trail after him on his knees like a pup in need of their owner's attention.

But then it all clicks. All their sharp edges, all their aggressiveness, Stiles' "you're so pretty"s, to the which Derek never said anything back, never knew what to answer to, what was appropriate, what wasn't (what was too much, too soon). 

And it's painfully obvious that Derek's silence has given Stiles all the wrong impressions, has given him ideas that couldn't be more far from the truth.

Derek rests his head on the steering wheel and curses himself out for getting lost in his head, for assuming that an eighteen year old kid will get his feelings when he can't fucking communicate them. He tells Stiles to shut up and argues with him, scowls at him, and then he fucks the fight out of him, just tries to fuck him into obedience. Or at least that's what it might look like to Stiles, after their first kiss (a meeting of tongues so forceful and of lips like swords) to whom he gives nothing else.

Stiles who initiated things and told him "you're fucking gorgeous" countless times, charged and dark because it also probably meant 'fuck you'.

And Derek is pretty he deserves that 'fuck you'.

And as that dawns on him, everything else starts to fit like puzzle pieces. Why Stiles never gets naked, why he leaves immediately after every time, and Derek wants to punch through brick and glass to feel the skin break and the blood flow, because it all fits and it's all on his damage of fucking course and all he wants to do is to kiss Stiles, slow and thorough and be shamelessly needy and burrow himself in the space between Stiles' neck and shoulder or in his armpit where his smell is musky and thick. He wants to lie next to him with no intent other than having him close. Wants them to work outside of sex. That's what Stiles deserves.

And after his only experience with Heather (sweet, innocent, bossy Heather who Stiles _told him about_ , fuck), he deserved much better than what he's giving him.

Derek would even say 'deserves someone better' but the bite of jealousy, the thrum of possessiveness doesn't let him go there, the mere idea of Stiles giving his time and body to anyone else enough to make his blood boil and his hands itch for something to destroy.

And that's how he comes to the conclusion that he has to be better for Stiles, has to make himself into what Stiles deserves because he's too selfish and can't deal with the idea of that being anyone other than him.

He makes himself leave the car, and get into the loft, goes mechanically through the process of going to bed, shuts his eyes and thinks _tomorrow. Right now is too soon, but tomorrow_ and makes himself relax until he falls asleep.

The next night he's knocking on Stiles' window after a day of complete radio silence and he's feeling determined not to fuck this up.

When Stiles opens his window looking rumpled and sleep soft, face bruised and pajamas pooling around him like they're four sizes bigger, complaining about people that can't use freaking doors or visit at normal hours, Derek slides inside and...

Kind of loses it, really.

"You're gorgeous." He blurts out, and Stiles' eyes widen, as his bottom lip drops a little. "And I'm in love with you."  
Stiles gapes at him, frozen on his spot.

"And..." he swallows past a tightness in his throat. "I don't want to just have sex with you when we're mad at each other. Or just have sex."

Stiles gapes at him for a moment longer, before he crosses his arms over his chest and nods his head jerkily.

"You... That... It really hurt your soul to talk about your feelings, I bet."

Derek recognizes that evasive maneuver for what it is, and doesn't raise to the bait, doesn't let Stiles defuse the situation.

Stiles fidgets, moves his body's weight from one feet to the other, lets his arms fall at his side, looks at the floor and then at Derek, hard.

"Look, Derek, I don't know what you want me to say, I can't just-- you can't expect me to--"

"I'm not proposing here, Stiles." He says soft. "I'm just asking you whether you feel the same."

Stiles' eyes narrow at that.

"Fuck you, Derek, you know how I feel."

He walks a few steps towards Stiles, raising one of his hands until he can touch the tips of Stiles' fingers.

"I need you to tell me," he says, and feels the ridiculousness of the situation, _him_ trying to get _Stiles_ to talk. "I need to know we're on the same page, Stiles."

Derek intertwines their fingers, squeezes Stiles' hand softly.

"I love you," Stiles spits out, like it's a dirty insult and Derek feels the overbearing need to fix everything he's fucked up between them. "and I know you know that, and I don't know what page you're on but you don't need to make me feel special so I won't get myself killed, asshole."

It's harsh and pierces through Derek's lungs, cuts his air supply and makes him breath in noisily.

He decides to go for broke, then, because it can't hurt and that's just who Derek is deep down, hopelessly fucking romantic.

"I want to make you feel special because you are, Stiles." He brings Stiles' hand up to his lips (and there's this little bud of hope inside him, at the fact that Stiles lets him), brushes them against his knuckles. "And because I'm stupid about you." 

Stiles blushes at his words, all over his sharp cheekbones and down his neck, and Derek knows how far down the blush goes, has seen it more than once and he still wants to check.

He feels exposed. Like he's cracked his ribcage open and he's showing Stiles everything that's inside.

It's worth it, though, for the way it's subdued Stiles. How it's making him look at Derek with fondness, heart beating mutinously, loud and fast.

"Who knew you were such a softie, buddy."

"Now _you_ know." He says, coy, and tugs at Stiles' hand, wanting him to close the distance between them. When they're inches apart, he whispers, "Let me show you how special you are."

Stiles laughs a little, deep, but he nods too and seals his lips over Derek's.

"Okay," he says when they part and hauls him towards the bed. "Show me, Big Guy."

And Derek does, undresses Stiles carefully and appreciates the view of Stiles' naked body for the first time, fixates on moles and expanses of skin he hadn't seen before and runs his hands over every part he can. He touches 

Stiles' feet and his calves, caresses the soft skin under his knee and takes his time massaging his muscled thighs. 

Stiles' clothes hide a lot of muscle definition, deceive people into thinking Stiles is skin and bones when he's anything but.

He digs thumbs on Stiles' hips, rubs circles there, watches the blood rise to the surface under his hands, flushing satisfyingly for him.

 

Stiles is already making small noises, gasping and biting his lips against moans. His cock is hard already, standing to attention.

Derek's mouth waters at the sight but he doesn't want this to be over soon, wants to make it last, to drive Stiles insane, to make this unforgettable, as cliché as it may sound.

He licks his way up Stiles' abs, forgoing his cock (which earns him a pitiful whine), and plays with Stiles' nipples (biting them and sucking them, licking circles around them and then blowing on them to make Stiles shiver) until he's bucking upwards, trying to fuck the air, to find some magical source of friction.

"You're such a fucking tease," sobs Stiles, and Derek answers by sucking a big, messy mark on his neck, and then another, and another, until Stiles' hands are on his hair, tugging, trying to get him away from the oversensitive skin.

"Turn around," he groans, sliding his hands through Stiles' sides.

Stiles is gone enough that he doesn't ask questions, just flails his limbs a little until he can get settled comfortably on his stomach, resting his head on his arms.

Stiles' back is beautiful, and he tells him that.

"Shut up," Stiles answers, burrowing his head even more.

"It is." He says, with finality. And he uses both his hands and mouth to pay homage to it, massaging his shoulders a bit and then trailing wet kisses all the way down his spine, all the way to his tailbone.

Stiles' ass. God, fuck, Stiles' ass.

He makes a wounded noise as he grabs the cheeks and squeezes them, kneads them (and that makes Stiles' muffled sounds a bit wilder, more desperate). He stays like that, transfixed, for a while, just touching with reverence.

"Please, Derek, please," begs Stiles, after a while, "just do something or you're gonna kill me. Please."

And Derek complies.

He parts Stiles' cheeks, thumbs rubbing softly over Stiles' puckered hole, and he scents there. He gets his nose between Stiles' parted cheeks and just draws a breath, inhaling everything StilesStilesStiles.

Stiles makes a little 'meep' and tries to shy away from him, but Derek is the one who says 'please' now, that he knows Stiles is thorough with his cleaning habits, can smell how clean he is, can smell him pure and undiluted. And he wants, he really wants, if Stiles will let him, please.

Stiles gives him permission, nods at him and says 'oh God, okay'.

And like that, Derek's tongue is circling his hole, lapping over it, trying to work its way inside, and Stiles is writhing soon, trying to push onto his face and onto the mattress for friction at the same time, hands now grabbing at the sheets for dear life and face down, mouth open, tongue almost peeking out.

It makes Derek's own cock ache with the need to come, so he unbuttons and unzips his pants and takes it out, smears the precome over the head with a careless hand as he mouths Stiles' hole, kisses it filthily.

He can feel the moment when Stiles comes, as he takes his mouth away for a moment to bite at one cheek, hard enough to leave a mark, as he gets the tips of two fingers inside of him.

That sends Stiles over the brink, makes him shudder and come all over his sheets, and the smell of him, the lingering taste of him, the feeling of him around his fingers is enough to bring him off in turn, coming hot and intense over his own hand.

"Consider me convinced that I'm pretty fucking special," Stiles says then, as Derek crawls up his body to rest with his face buried on Stiles' throat, satisfied and joking, voice a little cracked and still sex worn.

Derek tries to hide a disgustingly smitten smile, but he's pretty sure Stiles feels it anyway.

(... And then there are awkward dates and they still have a fuckton of angry sex after butting heads or risking their lives recklessly because that's them, that's just who they are, but they also make love like the disgustingly cute couple they sometimes are.)

**Author's Note:**

> [Come hang out with me on Tumblr!](http://memekon.tumblr.com)


End file.
